The Adventure of the Simian Savant
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: A Sherlock Holmes x Disney's Tarzan crossover. Dr Stamford arrives at Baker Street with an urgent plea for help: a guest lecturer at the Grant Zoology Museum has gone missing, amid sinister circumstances. In their searching for the missing woman, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson encounter an unusual suspect - a young African ape-man, who is visiting London for his own purposes.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, readers. Feel free to skip this intro and read it after you've gotten through the first chapter - or not at all, if you wish!_

_First, an apology to those who have faithfully - and patiently - followed my other Sherlock Holmes story, _'The Adventure of the Bee Keeper's Violin'_. I'm sorry, but that story is on hiatus indefinitely. Some time ago my computer crashed, causing me to lose all my story notes; besides which, I had written myself into a corner and was struggling to find a way out. I might take it up again some day, but not in the foreseeable future, I'm afraid._

_To new readers - and Tarzan fans - hello, I hope you enjoy this offering. A _Tarzan_ x _Sherlock_ crossover? Why not?_

_Why Disney's _Tarzan_? Because I like it - it's my favourite Disney movie. I haven't read the Edgar Rice-Burroughs novels, so I won't be encorporating any elements from them. I like Disney's gentle, idealistic take on the character; I've been watching '_Legend of Tarzan'_ episodes, which are quite good._

_The first half of the story will be a Conan-Doyle style procedural; the second half will focus more on Tarzan and Co. I may have to give _Tarzan_ a bit more of an edge of realism to fit in with Sherlock's world; likewise, Holmes might have to be Disney-fied a bit to meet it in the middle - not too dark, but hopefully still suspenseful._

_A quick note on times. It is hard to specifically date _Tarzan_, since Darwin, Kipling, and Queen Victoria are all mentioned in the film, yet the '_Legend of Tarzan_' series purportedly takes place in 1912, even though it has supposedly only been a year since the original film's end. I chose to shave a decade off that, setting the events of Tarzan around 1889-1901, and this story a few years after that. I also gave this story a very specific date, as it needs to fit around the Conan-Doyle canon; I've included references to some of Holmes' previous cases, as you will find as you read._

_I have a few other ideas for Tarzan-themed stories, so if you like this one, I'd love to hear it!_

_Thanks for reading, please enjoy! ~ W.J._

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the Simian Savant<strong>

**Chapter One**

It is strange, where a man's life will lead him.

At the time of my disastrous return from Afghanistan, I never would have believed that I might find myself as I did only a few short years later, happily married and with a thriving practice, quite comfortably well-off and not at all wanting for pleasant company. Besides having made a somewhat favourable impression upon my professional peers and acquired numerous congenial cronies of my own, my wife is the kind of friendly soul who attracts like-minded associates like moths to a flame; henceforth, I could never dare complain of loneliness.

However, on certain nights in this idyll of domestic contentment, when society at my chosen club seemed duller than usual, or the serenity of our humble abode became too much of a tedium, out of some nostalgia for my bachelor days, or perhaps a kind of keening for the excitement of some higher purpose, I found myself walking down the familiar pavement of Baker Street, to the abode of Sherlock Holmes.

When I first set foot on Portsmouth Jetty all those years ago, friendless and forlorn, I never imagined that I might make the acquaintance of a companion quite like Holmes. Admittedly, such a man is near inconceivable; to say that he is an odd fish would gravely understate the fact. Yet it is this very strangeness, it would seem, that made him so attractive.

I do not wish to give the impression that he was to me some sort of entertaining novelty; an oddsome diversion that I would seek out in times of boredom. To be a mere novelty, his great feats of deductive power would have needed to be only sporadic, which they certainly were not. I might have found him to be unbearably arrogant, if I hadn't had proof of his impressive skills so many times over; I suspect I had nearly as much belief in his abilities as he did himself. It is trite to say, but his unique accomplishments were always aimed at serving some greater good - even if that 'good' was merely his own relentless need to always prove himself right. Nevertheless, that his services helped innumerable clients and beneficiaries goes without saying; and I was proud to have contributed to this noble cause, in my own small way. Holmes was the not-so-humble servant to justice, and I his willing helpmate. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that I sought out his particular company on many a tiresome night, when normalcy became less than appreciated, and routine a downright nuisance.

That is not to say that we found ourselves on perilous missions at the culmination of all such visits. This was occasionally what transpired; on consulting my notes, I find that such cases as the Johnson extortion plot, the Compton-Vickers blackmailer, and the attempted Wickerbry abduction, all had their genesis in just such excursions. In more instances than not, however, I would arrive at my former place of residency to find Holmes calmly smoking his after-dinner pipe, luxuriating in one of those spells of lassitude that were so repugnant to him.

Sometimes, he would be embroiled deep in some mental exercise, and would not acknowledge my presence at all from the time I sat down until I took my leave. Other times, I found him to be in a sociable mood (or, at least, what constitutes for one within his particular temperament), ready to regale me with the various intricacies of some supposedly unsolvable mystery which he had just unravelled in a trice; or to lecture me on the musical virtues of Paganini compared to Strauss; or to extol the unique practical applications of a certain chemical nitrate, depending on his chosen occupation at the time. When caught in the right frame of mind, he had a sparkling wit every bit as fine as his professional prowess; when not, he was a morose, sullen presence, which I presume I alone, accustomed to his habits as I am, could find not just tolerable, but strangely comforting. Oftentimes, we would simply sit, each of us absorbed in our own affairs - I reading the evening papers or the latest medical journal, he sorting through his casebooks or poking at his chemical experiments - wrapped in a pall of companionable silence, until I at last bid him goodnight and returned to my own home.

It was on just such a night that this recollection begins. I have stated that my friend is a unique and somewhat eccentric individual, a summation which he would no doubt take as a gracious compliment. And yet, before this particular night was through, the pair of us would encounter a man who, perhaps, surpasses even my friend in both the remarkable nature of his singular accomplishments, and his astonishingly complete lack of conventionality.

It was on 16th September 1903 that I found myself once again at 221B Baker Street, sitting in my habitual armchair, deeply engrossed in a scientific paper. Holmes was darting in and out of his various scrapbooks, attempting vainly to diminish a pile of case notes which stood beside the hearth, threatening to collapse upon the long-suffering landlady every time she endeavoured to sweep the grate.

I was immersed in my own preoccupation, when my companion's sardonic jibe broke through my train of thought.

"Surely you are not thinking of extending your practice to cater for apes?"

He had looked up from his own work and noted the title of my paper, which was: _The Comparative Physiology and Psychology of Homo-sapiens with Select Simian Species_.

"Brilliant deduction though that is," I replied, with a bit of wry mirth, "I am merely extending my mind. This dissertation was recommended to me by a colleague; it is a fine read. Surely you are acquainted with Darwin's incredible postulations?"

It was a continued sore point between us that he deliberately eschewed all knowledge of the solar system's workings. Knowing this, he gave a complacent shrug. "I have attempted to maintain my ignorance on the subject, but I keep coming across the most insistent reminders. I did not know that you were an exponent of his theories."

"I was sceptical at first," I admitted.

"Just as you were sceptical about the science of deduction," was his uncharitable remark.

"Yes," I replied, rather testily. "However, once presented with the inescapable proof put forward in _Origin of the Species_, I found the idea to be resoundingly plausible; just as I did, might I remind you, with that seemingly-ineffectual twaddle ambitiously known as _The Book of Life_, the author of which shall remain unnamed. Perhaps," I added, "you take a more theological approach to the subject?" I was well aware that such a difference in opinion had likely parted many colleagues, and ruined many friendships.

He gave a critical snort as he reached for his pipe. "If the Creator did indeed make apes as His first template for the human race, I wish He had taken the time to refine their intellects a great deal more; to this day, most specimens are found to be sorely lacking."

"Of course you consider yourself the one exception," I retorted, somewhat acidly; his conceit could be quite irksome at times, justifiable though it invariably was. I turned my attention back to the article.

"This scientist's work is truly illuminating," I said, trying to impress the point upon my companion. "As well has having opposable digits and pentadactyl limbs much like our own, many species of ape also resemble us in their psychological and emotional traits. After extensively studying the habits of ape populations in the wild, this zoologist fellow observed that gorillas have a complex social structure, similar to ours in many ways - they follow a chosen leader, form devoted family units, mourn their dead, and even have something that resembles a judicial system."

Having refilled his pipe from the Persian slipper on the mantle, Holmes devoted his first puff to a derisive scoff. "I trust, then, that Lestrade and Gregson would recognize themselves in their simian cousins. It is even feasible," with a particularly scornful sneer, "that Dupin was on the right track when he suspected an orang-utan of committing murder!"

This last comment was purposefully meant to rile me; I had not quite forgiven Holmes for so savagely critiquing a Poe classic of which I had always been fond.

I was about to return some cutting remark, when there came a sudden frantic pounding on the outer door, then a series of thundering footsteps upon the stairs, rapidly drawing closer. Accustomed though I was to the sometimes less-than-decorous approach of my friend's prospective clients, I had a strange sense of foreboding as those haphazard footfalls same to an unsteady halt outside the sitting-room door.

Imagine my surprise when it then burst open to reveal none other than Stamford, our mutual acquaintance; the very man, in fact, who had initially suggested that we might take lodgings together.

"Stamford!" I cried. "This is an unexpected pleasure! But you look to be quite done-up about something, old boy!"

Indeed, he was in a pitiable state; quite unrecognizable from the smart, sparse figure he usually cut. In the time that had elapsed since we bumped into one another at the Criterion Bar, Stamford had become an associate lecturer on applied biology at the University of London, and henceforth was highly regarded as a distinguished member of the educational faculty. There was very little distinction left about him at that moment; he was puffing and panting like a steam engine, flushed in the face and soaked in perspiration, practically tottering on his feet. His face looked so ghastly that my professional sympathies were immediately aroused. I hastily directed him to a comfortable chair; Holmes set a glass of water at his elbow, which I pressed upon him.

"You look to have met a trying time, my friend," I told him, as he gulped inarticulately. "We will come to that when you are somewhat recovered. As your doctor, I advise you to take a minute to compose yourself."

"A straightforward and reliable medicine," he managed to say rather breathlessly, putting the glass down and eying us both with thanks. I suspect that Holmes had added a dash of whisky to it, for his colour was fast improving, and already he was becoming stronger. "I am so glad to see you, Watson, old fellow. I have serious need of yours and Holmes' aid - I didn't know where else to turn."

"You can rely on us, Stamford," Holmes broke in, soothingly. "If there is some tangled skein that needs unravelling, we're your men."

Stamford regarded him gravely. "I fear this problem is a little too much in your line of work. I have reason to believe-" and his voice took on a hushed, horrified tone "-that the most beastly crime has been committed."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Whatever has happened?"

"It is our guest lecturer," Stamford began; he seemed so anxious to divest himself of his trouble, he struggled to know where to start. "I just came from the hotel, and-"

He suddenly stopped, staring past me with such a fixed gaze that both Holmes and I were momentarily startled.

"But it seems you are already acquainted with my problem!"

He sprang forward and snatched up the article which, until a few moments ago, had so engaged my attention. "This was written by our guest lecturer. There is to be a seminar tomorrow, and I visited the hotel to finish coordinating the slide projections that are required, only to find the room in shambles, and evidence that- well, I rather fear... that something dreadful has happened to her."

I think we both drew gasps at that; Holmes and I exchanged incredulous glances.

"'Her'?" I repeated.

"Yes." Stamford jabbed a shaky finger at the article, pointing to the name inscribed beneath its title. "J. E. Porter - Miss Jane Porter. I think- well, I greatly fear that... that she has been _murdered_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I dispatched Billy to take word to my wife that I would likely be away for the rest of the night. Kindly creature that she is, she well understood that I was obliged to help a friend; not to mention the unfortunate woman, who had written such a comprehensive article, and whom Stamford now had reason to believe was in the direst peril.

With no further need for delay, Stamford gave us more information on the suspected victim as we hurried along Marylebone Road. Miss Porter was to give her lecture at the Grant Museum of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy, over on Gower Street; however, Stamford explained to us, she intended to use an ape from the Zoo in her presentation, and had insisted on staying somewhere in close proximity. It was near enough to Baker Street for us to reach on foot, explaining Stamford's dishevelled state when he had burst in upon us; he had run all the way to Holmes' place in a blind panic.

"A few years ago," Stamford said, walking at a pace which was leisurely enough to permit him to speak, yet brisk enough to suit the urgency of our purpose, "Miss Porter left England on an expedition to East Africa. Her intention was to study the silverback gorillas that are found in abundance among the unexplored regions of Kenya, just south of Lake Victoria. She was in the company of her father, Professor Archimedes Q. Porter, a brilliant zoologist and scientific authority in his own right. I believe he is also in London at the moment, but as of yet, I have no way of locating him. He should be notified, if indeed the worst is-"

"Do not conjecture yet, my friend," Holmes interrupted him, sternly. "We will only draw such conclusions once we have compiled all the available data that the scene has to offer. If it comes to it, I'm sure we can devise some way to reach the professor. You say that they have both just recently returned to England?"

"Yes, they arrived last Monday."

"And it is only Wednesday now."

"Yes, it is a flying visit. I believe they mean to return to Africa almost as soon as the lecture is done."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "They are as devoted to their study as that?"

"I didn't have occasion to ask," Stamford replied, colouring slightly. "I didn't wish to pry too much into the young lady's affairs."

"Quite so. I'm afraid your discretion could now do us some disservice, under the circumstances. Do you know of any other party who may have accompanied the Porters here from Africa?"

"None that I am aware of. I rather believe that Professor Porter is the only family that she has left. They likely hired some help on their expedition, a caretaker or guide, at the very least; but I have met no one of that description, nor heard any mentioned by her."

"What about associates here in London?"

"I think she may have briefly talked about some old school friends she intended to look up. She and her father have been away for several years; any acquaintances they have here will be old ones. Whenever I met her to discuss academic matters, she was always on her own."

"Ah." Holmes' brow furrowed. "A woman friendless and alone, unaccompanied amid the harsh wilderness of London's backstreets. Such is the most vulnerable prey to be found in our fair urban jungle."

"I might be mistaken," Stamford admitted, with weak optimism. "The landlord of the hotel can likely verify such things better than I can. She may have had some visitors whom I do not know of."

"That is a logical first line of enquiry," Holmes assented. "If this is the place just ahead, we will be able to pursue it soon enough."

As we spoke, we came upon a small hostelry in an off-road, little more than a block away from the western-most border of Regent's Park. The establishment looked respectable and reasonably well-kept, though slightly dinghy, with many of the fittings rather in need of replacement.

"The place is popular with zoology students," Stamford explained, as we entered the foyer. "Miss Porter chose to stay here at my recommendation." He looked down at the much-chipped tile floor with a remorseful gaze. "If only I had suggested more secure accommodation when I had the chance-"

"You suspected such a thing might happen?" Holmes asked, curtly interrupting his self-reproach.

"I admit, I did. We have had similar presentations sabotaged in the past. Some lecturers have been hassled on their way to their lodgings, had things thrown at them or been booed offstage during their talks - but never anything as serious as this."

"Has the culprit behind such pranks ever been caught?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not. It is not the sole work of one person, you see. There is a mystic society, based in Bloomsbury we have reason to believe, known as The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. They are opposed to the concept of evolutionary theory, and may have interpreted Miss Porter's findings as being in support of Darwinism."

"I see. You know of no other parties who might have wished harm upon Miss Porter?"

"Absolutely none. It is all rather hard to believe. She is, as much as I can tell from our very brief acquaintance, a very kind, well-mannered, respectable young lady. I cannot fathom why anyone would wish ill upon her."

"That is for us to ascertain. We had better take possession of the crime scene, and see for ourselves exactly how things stand."

At the front desk, we found a small, weasely-looking man fidgeting at his post. Indeed, given his proximity to the nearby zoo, he rather fittingly resembled a caged animal. He glanced furtively at us, in a manner so obviously suggestive of guilt, I wondered to myself whether my friend's deductive powers would be necessary at all.

"Mr Sempleston," Stamford greeted him. "This is the famous detective, Mr Holmes, and his esteemed associate, Dr Watson. I could think of no finer friends to call upon in this grave matter."

"A pleasure, gentlemen, I'm sure," Sempleston muttered; the sentiment of his tone did not match the meaning of his words. I was instantly suspicious of this man; everything about him suggested some form of duplicity. I already had half a mind to reach for the old service revolver I had secreted in my pocket before we left on our errand. He was so inexplicably twitchy, it set all my nerves on edge. Glancing at Holmes beside me, I could see that he had been similarly impressed. However, he maintained an air of outward nonchalance, as he addressed the unsavoury little man.

"Mr Sempleston, there is one point which you can perhaps clarify for me, before we proceed to examine the premises themselves. Are you aware of any visitors Miss Porter may have had, besides Dr Stamford here?"

"No, " Sempelston replied, with some hesitancy. "I-I mean, that is to say, I don't keep tabs on my lodgers at all hours. The lady may have had a visitor while I was otherwise detained; she didn't have a latchkey, but she could have easily let someone in without my notice. Mostly, though, I only ever saw her talking with Dr Stamford, or some of the other tenants, on occasion."

"We may need to enquire further into these other tenants," Holmes said, with professional briskness. "For the present, however, I should like to see the room in question, if you would be so kind as to show us up."

"O-of course." The little man came around the desk, then stopped a few feet shy of us and regarded us warily, as if he were a mouse and we a pride of lions set to pounce upon him. "If you please, sir, the police... there isn't any really reason to summon them yet, is there?"

"That depends on whether a crime has been committed," Holmes returned, with an impressive air of gravity which did little for the man's skittish nerves. "If it is indeed confirmed that some atrocity has taken place, of course we will need to notify the rightful authorities."

"Yes. Right. Q-quite so. Well, this way, if you please."

We followed his tottering gait up a small flight of stairs to the second level. The hallway branched off into a number of closed doors adorned with numbers, each evidently a separate flat.

Halfway down the passageway, there was a small alcove hung with curtains, intended to be a reading nook or snug of sorts. It was otherwise unfurnished, save for a wooden chair of a rather weather-beaten appearance; the backrest was practically rotted, the veneer scraped back and the topmost edge of the wood crumbling into splinters. I saw Holmes eye it with interest as we passed. It seemed indicative of some hidden squalor we might find beyond the smartly-painted doors of the surrounding apartments.

Sempleston stopped before door number four. "This is it, gents," he said. "I trust you will not need a key to get in?"

Holmes turned to him sharply. "You mean the door has been left unlocked?"

"Well, y-yes," the landlord said, giving another nervous twitch. "Dr Stamford told me to leave everything exactly as it was until he returned..."

"And I found the door to be unlocked when I first arrive," Stamford confirmed.

We were all rather taken aback by this. Surely any woman living alone would have the good sense to lock her door against intruders?

"Perhaps," I suggested, "she has spent so long outside of civilization, she has forgotten that she must safeguard herself against the particular dangers of the city. It is little wonder that something of the kind has happened."

"Quite," Holmes murmured in reply, though he looked to be deep in thought.

"I always knew her to keep her door locked," Sempleston ventured to interpose. "I cannot think why she hadn't done it this time." At his words, Holmes' abstracted gaze suddenly sharpened and focused upon his, making him flinch. He swallowed nervously. "If that is all you require...?"

"For the time, Mr Sempleston. I would be much obliged if you would remain downstairs, in case I have further questions for you."

"Right. Yes. Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He sidled away, then all but jogged back down the stairs. I half expected to hear the front door slam behind him; but we were left with only a fitful silence in his wake.

"What the devil has gotten into that man?!" Stamford exclaimed, once he was well out of earshot. "I had thought for some time that the fellow seemed more than a bit suspect, but his behaviour tonight is downright incriminating!"

"I would not go so far as that," Holmes said, with a wry chuckle. "It appears we have severely rattled Mr Sempleston."

"But why?"

"Hum. I have my own idea, though I do not dare conjecture before I have come to know some more about the matter." So saying, he knelt down at the threshold of the flat and began to examine something on the floor just outside it.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, holding up a wisp of something long and thin, resembling a twig.

"Was it brought in from outside?"

"Perhaps. You'll note that it is lacquered on one side, raw wood on the other. Obviously it has been scraped off something larger."

"It is not evidence of the door having been forced," I pointed out. "All the doors along here have been whitewashed."

"Quite so. This must have some other origin, then, which we shall need to investigate presently." He put the fragment in an envelope, which he then tucked into the pocket of his overcoat for safekeeping.

"Well now, shall we survey the scene of the crime?" So saying, he pushed open the door to the flat.

I let out an involuntary gasp. The room was not so squalid as I had expected from the state of the hallway, but it was in complete shambles: furniture had been overturned, papers scattered, sheets torn. A pillow had even been split, scattering stray feathers all over the bedstead.

Its most arresting feature, however, was a sinister-looking red stain upon the floor. It was still wet and partly congealed, glistened darkly in the light from the hall lamp behind us.

It was little wonder that Stamford had been overcome by such a strong reaction whence he first sought our aid. At the repeated sight of this scarlet puddle, he baulked a little, and turned white to the lips; however, he rallied quickly, and stood beside me with relative calm. Hardened though my nerves were, it sickened me to think of the blood pool's source, and the unfortunate, absent women who had likely shed it. I expected there to be a body lying somewhere in some gloomy corner of the room's depths, or at least some other sign of tragedy; however, except for the lamentable state of the furnishings, there appeared to be none.

Holmes did not so much as blink at this horrific sign of violence. He swiftly crossed the room, stepping carefully so as to avoid disturbing any aspect of the scene, and turned on the lamp which stood on a small bedside table, thus giving himself ample light by which to begin his investigation. Then he returned to Stamford and I, who still lingered in the doorway, both of us a little transfixed by the scarlet pool in the centre of the room. He began an exacting analysis of the door itself.

"Simple bar lock," he murmured, more to himself than to either of us. "Easy to break, yet no sign of forced entry. Key still in the lock, on the inside. You know of no one else who would have a key to this door?"

His question was directed at Stamford. "No," he answered. "I certainly didn't have one. I suppose Sempleston likely has duplicate keys to all the rooms..."

"We shall have to ask him later. For now, it is of little consequence; if another key had been used from the outside, this one would have been dislodged from the lock. Either Miss Porter herself opened the door to someone, or..."

"Or?" Stamford repeated.

"Or the door was not used at all."

Stamford blinked, then turned to me with a rather doubtful expression. I was rather more used to Holmes' methods, and so only gave him a wry smile. "Have confidence in him a little longer, old man. His ways are unconventional, but it is this very characteristic that so invariably ensures his success."

"Any possibility," Holmes broke in, with the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class, "must be considered, however implausible. There are many ways into a closed room, besides the most obvious one. There are some suggestive factors here, and a good many theories which are certainly substantiated by the evidence. I shall need to gather more data before I can draw any more specific conclusions."

Having thus lectured us, he suited the action to his word, beginning one of his utterly thorough examinations of the entire room. Drawing a strong lens from his coat pocket, he minutely scrutinized the edges of the torn sheets, and the seams of the split pillow. He lifted the toppled furniture, examined each piece and the floor beneath it, then carefully set it down again. He paused at a certain chair, which had been tipped over on its side.

"Have a look at this."

Picking our way gingerly through the field of debris, Stamford and I made our way over to him. Holmes set the chair upright, carefully matching the position of its legs with impressions made upon the floor; it had obviously been standing on this spot for some time.

"Look here," he said.

It took some time for my eyes to pick out what he referred to. At last, I saw it: a faint mark upon the edge of the chair, right in the outer corner of the seat. There was a large blot, darkly-coloured yet only faintly distinguishable, as though left in a very fine pall of dust. Beneath it were five smaller, circular impressions.

"A paw print?" I asked, incredulously.

"Hmm. Something of the sort." Holmes gestured to the floor. "There is another one there; nearly obliterated, as though someone tried to erase it, but still quite visible."

Both Stamford and I bent over it. "What manner of animal would make such a print?" Stamford asked.

I was reminded of the mongoose that Holmes and I had encountered in the 'Case of the Crooked Man'. These prints were significantly larger, with no sign of claw marks - thankfully, nothing like the tracks of the cheetah we had very nearly had altercation with in the 'Adventure of the Speckled Band'.

Holmes gave a laconic chuckle. "A very familiar beast, I fancy." He turned his back to the chair and perched one foot upon the edge of the seat; the other, he planted on the floor just in front of it. Then he stood upright again, and I saw that he had left light impressions from the soles of his boots beside the pre-existing prints; they were much the same size, and similarly situated.

"They are human," Stamford said, with a breath of wonder.

"Yes," Holmes replied, folding his arms and casting a critical eye on the set of footmarks. "Though I cannot for now determine why a man would strike such a posture; he did not stand on the chair in order to reach something, nor was he merely sitting, in any conventional sense. How curious."

He turned and continued his scrutiny of the scene, with renewed vigour. At last, he turned his attention to the most obvious piece of evidence: the ominous red pool beside the hearth rug.

"I-is it," Stamford asked, haltingly, "enough to... to suggest...?"

I knew what he was trying to ask; it was little wonder that he had so greatly feared for Miss Porter's well-being. There must have been two pints of blood there at least - enough to suggest a near-fatal haemorrhaging in any woman.

"You are drawing premature conclusions, Stamford," Holmes said, reproachfully. "I already have my suspicions about this mark. Notice that there is no drip patterns leading to or from it. If this is indeed the site of some violence, there should be an undisturbed body lying right in the middle of it. Yet there is not so much as a trace of one. If a body bleeds out at the primary site, then is moved to another location in an effort to conceal the crime, it cannot be done without some sign of directionality."

"Perhaps the body was wrapped in a sheet, or something similar?" I suggested.

Holmes shook his head. "If a body fell here at all, the blood pool should be disturbed in some way; there would be the slightest signs of scuffing at the edges, or drag marks, yet I can find no such indications. I rather think that this would be a prime candidate from the Sherlock Holmes Test."

He reached into an inner pocket and drew out a small packet, along with a test tube. On looking closer, I saw that the flask, which I at first thought to be empty, was in fact filled with a clear fluid, which I took to be distilled water. Holmes carefully used a small chemical spatula to scoop up a sample of the blood pool; he deposited it in the test tube, turning the contents a faint reddish-taupe. He then opened the packet and added a few small, white crystals to this solution.

All those years ago, in the testing lab at Barts, we three had witnessed the first demonstration of the Sherlock Holmes Test. It was so strange, to find the exact same company assembled once more, for the exact same purpose, albeit under far more extraordinary circumstances - with the life of a woman at stake.

Holmes swilled the test tube gently, tapped it with one long finger, then smiled grimly. "No precipitate has formed, indicating that there is no presence of haemoglobin. It is not blood."

"Not blood?!" Stamford all but shouted. He drew his coat sleeve across his brow, looking almost faint with relief; I cautiously put my hand on his shoulder to bolster him, though he otherwise maintain his composure. "Oh, thank God! But what is it, then?"

Holmes dabbed at the puddle with his hand, then sniffed delicately at his fingertips. "Some kind of fruit, I'd wager."

"Ah!" Stamford gasped. "The basket! I brought it as a gift, you know... young lady had returned to dreary old England from exotic climes, I thought she might appreciate..."

It was sitting on a side table, where Stamford claimed to have last left it himself: a small wicker basket, decorated with a festive ribbon. It contained a bunch of grapes, a couple of bananas, some ripe green apples, and several clementines.

"A few bananas are missing," Stamford said, "and all of the plums-"

"-have met their demise," Holmes finished, pointing to the red stain with a hearty laugh. "I suspect the fruit was wrung out for its juice, along with a bit of pulp for added viscosity; then the skins and pits were discarded somewhere, probably out the window." He cast a critical eye over the puddle on the floor. "It was admirably done. I have authored a trifling monograph on the analysis of blood stains, and I would say that whoever did this knew what a textbook arterial spray should look like."

"Does this mean," Stamford broke in, "that this entire macabre scenery was... staged?"

Holmes allowed himself to smile, and to furthermore engage in a flash of wit. "Yes; as you doctors would put it, that is my diagnosis." He dusted off his hands and thrust them in his pockets, eyeing his surrounds meditatively. "I suspected as much at first glance. You'll notice that the furniture has all been _placed_ on its sides, not overturned; there is no damage done to any of it, nor to the floor beneath it, which would assuredly be the case if it had been knocked over with some force. Likewise, the sheets have only one straight, regular rip down the centre, and the pillow has been torn neatly on one side; the edges would be frayed, and the damage far less regular, if it had been done in a struggle, as we were meant to believe."

"But... why?" Stamford asked, his expression bewildered. Thankful though he was for evidence of Miss Porter's survival, the affair was rapidly becoming far more complicated than first imagined. "Why would someone do this? And... where is Miss Porter?"

"Hmm. I have some ideas that would answer those questions. But my theory still requires some elucidation. And there is the matter of the door, for which we still have no satisfactory means of explanation."

"Perhaps," I said, "the key was left on the inside as another blind, meant to mislead us?"

Holmes shook his head with a dissatisfied frown. "It doesn't fit the pattern. If that was indeed their aim, it would have been better to break the lock, or to have locked the door from the outside and take the key with them; either of these possibilities would have more readily suggested the entrance of some intruder. No, there is yet some other vital piece here yet..."

So saying, he took up his magnifying lens again and began to scrutinize the floor. Every so often he gave an exultory little mutter to himself; evidently, he had spied some trace of his quarry, though it was quite invisible to me. His trail seemed to swiftly reach a dead end, for it merely led him towards the partially-opened window. He scanned the windowsill with his glass, giving a little murmur of satisfaction.

"I was quite right," he declared. "This seems to be where the unfortunate plums met their gruesome fate. There are numerous drops of juice upon the-"

He stopped in mid-sentence; so abruptly that, for a moment, Stamford and I were almost alarmed. He was examining something halfway up the window frame, just to the left of the sash. I saw his brow compress in consternation. Then he turned to us with a chagrinned look of utter bemusement upon his face.

"Well, this case does turn out to be far more singular than I had originally thought! Just look at this!"

I looked, and felt a thrill of horror pass right through me, from head to foot.

There, applied to the whitewashed plaster in sharp distinction, was a clear print - the pad and toes of what appeared to be a well-formed foot, almost level with the height of my shoulder. It faced into the room, having apparently been directed whence from the sheer drop outside the window.

For a time, we were all rather flabbergasted by it.

To my mind, it recalled a grim prospect; namely, it reminded me of Tonga, the savage little native who had been of deadly service to Jonathon Small, the malignant man who would have victimized my then-to-be wife, back when we had first met. I still had terrible visitations of that lethal dart hitting the boards just shy of my companion and I. Even now, the mere remembrance conjures up a horrendous thrill of fear and loathing. The possibility of facing a similar antagonist by no means appealed to me.

Holmes seemed to divine my thoughts, transparent as they were; I am sure that I must have turned a few shades paler. He gave a grim smile.

"But what does this mean?!" Stamford asked; without our dubious wealth of former experience, the print had him quite in the dark.

"It means," Holmes said, in measured tones, "that we are likely dealing with another visitor from Africa."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: my apologies to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It was a real mystic society, though I do not think it in any way opposed Darwinism, nor championed Creationism; I just needed someone to use as a red herring. ~ W.J.<em>


End file.
